


that which glitters divinely gold

by bluejayblueskies



Series: TMA Fantasy Week [6]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Deities, Deity Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, First Meetings, Gods, M/M, They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, and martin is a human who's found his temple and likes to sit and read the books there, jon is a god of knowledge, this is hard to tag but essentially
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 15:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30124611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: “I like it here," Martin says. "And I… I feel like it likes me too.”The stranger hums; it’s a lovely sound, like the clanging of morning bells. “It does,” they say, confidently and lightly, like there’s no room for argument in the matter. After a moment, they continue, more hesitantly, “I…Ido.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA Fantasy Week [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2208423
Comments: 13
Kudos: 143





	that which glitters divinely gold

**Author's Note:**

> written for tma fantasy week for the prompt: temple

Martin’s never been one to worship in the presence of company. He’s not usually one to worship at all, but something about this place had called to him—a stone temple, set into the side of the mountain near his village, from which one can see the entire valley and, Martin gets the feeling, anything else they care to look for. It’s a small thing, hewn from dark, shining rock inset with glittering cat’s eye gems, and when Martin’s within it, he feels… safe. Whole. Like he’s where he’s meant to be.

So, every week, he makes the trip up the mountain with offerings in hand—crumpled-up letters found discarded or yellowed book pages or simply a story, waiting upon Martin’s lips—and sits in the center of the temple, in a small divot in the rock that holds him close as he selects one of the many, many books from along the walls and reads until the light has faded too much to see the words in front of him. It’s a comforting routine, and it’s _his,_ and he does it alone.

Today, he walks into the temple and finds someone else stood before one of the shelves.

Martin startles so badly he drops the book he’d been holding. It hits the floor with a dull _thud,_ and in the moment before the person turns to face him, Martin swears he feels the weight of a thousand eyes on him, sudden and terrifying and oppressive.

Then, the stranger’s eyes find his—or, at least, _some_ of their eyes—and Martin takes a small, staggering step backward. It’s only after the initial shock has passed that Martin realizes that he’s not… _afraid._ He thinks he ought to be—the figure before him clearly isn’t human, and the place where Martin has always felt safe and welcome and _wanted_ has been intruded upon—but he isn’t. So, after a long moment—during which the stranger doesn’t move, simply watches him—Martin takes a small step towards them and says, hesitantly, “H- hello. I’m, er, I’m Martin. I… didn’t think that anybody else knew about this place?”

The stranger’s eyes are studying him with a kind of curiosity now, and Martin thinks he sees their mouth curl into a small smile. He continues quickly, “You’re- you’re welcome, of course, it’s- it’s not like I _own_ the place, and- and really, I’m surprised that nobody else ever comes up here! There’s- there’s _loads_ of stuff in these books, things about- about _medicine_ and _science_ and _history_.” Martin flushes slightly and says, “But I suppose if you’re here, you- you probably already know about all of that.”

A few of the stranger’s eyes wink shut and blend back into the sepia brown of their skin, and they make a sound that Martin identifies, after a moment, as a _chuckle._ “I do,” they say. Their words echo throughout the temple, doubling back onto one another until it sounds like dozens of voices speaking at once, a choir of sounds and syllables. “You come here often.”

It’s not a question. The remaining eyes study him, their gaze a familiar sensation against Martin’s skin, but he squirms under them just the same. “Yeah, well…” Martin trails off, glancing about the temple—at the intricate details on the walls that he knows by heart, at the spines of the books that he’s run his fingers along countless times, at the small collection of items he’s amassed on a squat table near the back, not dissimilar to a shrine. Finally, he says, “I like it here. And I… I feel like it likes me too.”

The stranger hums; it’s a lovely sound, like the clanging of morning bells. “It does,” they say, confidently and lightly, like there’s no room for argument in the matter. After a moment, they continue, more hesitantly, “I… _I_ do.”

Martin feels a bit lost. “I… I don’t understand. I- I don’t think we’ve met?” He lets out a small, nervous laugh. “I think I’d remember someone with- with more than the standard number of eyes.”

The stranger’s mouth curls into a wider smile, like they’re amused. “I suppose so.” They pause, as if considering something, before taking a step toward Martin and letting the rest of their eyes wink shut save for the two on their face, where eyes should be. “I- I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Martin. I… I just wanted to meet you. It’s been a- a long time since someone’s visited my temple. It’s been… it’s been rather nice to have some company.”

Now Martin’s thoroughly lost. He’s always come alone—though, of course, when he’s here he doesn’t feel lonely at all, not nearly as acutely as he feels it in his village. Then, his mind catches on the words _my temple,_ and before he can think to stop himself, he says, “ _Your_ temple?”

It sounds petulant even to Martin’s ears, more than a bit annoyed. Yeah, it’s not like he owns the place, but neither should _anybody_. This isn’t a place that should be owned at all—nor does Martin think it could be even if someone wanted to.

The stranger must pick up on it, because their forehead dips into a frown as they say, “I think you’re misunderstanding me.” They pause, their eyes finding Martin’s, and Martin feels so _seen_ in that moment, in a way he never has before, not even in this place. Then, like a flash of lightning, every one of their eyes opens wide, irises glowing a brilliant gold that shimmers upon the walls, reflecting and refracting over and over until the entire place is alight with a radiant aura that should probably hurt to look at. But Martin looks. He looks, and he feels that same heavy press of dozens and hundreds and thousands of eyes against his skin, knowing every single part of who he is and who he was and who he desperately wishes to be.

Martin had never really believed that this place has a god. It doesn’t feel like a place of religion, not like the churches he’d been forced to frequent as a child, and it’s never expected things from him in the form of prayer or devotion or self-sacrifice. Only what he can give it. What he’s _willing_ to give it.

Now, though, enveloped in iridescence and glittering gold, Martin knows that he was wrong. That this place is a place, but this place is also a temple, and this temple has a god, and that god is stood before him, looking into his soul with such a gentle, sincere curiosity and reverence that Martin thinks he might cry beneath their gaze. As the light fades and the eyes wink closed, Martin returns to himself. And as the feeling of being truly, utterly known dissipates, Martin also knows that he was right, in a way. This place is nothing like the churches of his village, nothing like the god he’d grown so familiar with that he’d loved and despised in equal amounts.

And this god, standing before Martin with a brown cloak wrapped around their shoulders and eyes that now reflect nothing but the faint sunlight streaming in from outside, is so tangible and real that Martin could touch them.

“Oh,” Martin says quietly, and he only realizes then that he’d been holding his breath. He inhales shakily, his heartbeat loud in his ears, and says, “You… you really did mean _your_ temple.”

It’s probably a stupid thing to say. But before Martin can chastise himself or take the words back, the stranger—the _god_ —lets out another amused noise and says, “I did. Though I do think it’s belonged to you more and more lately, in a way.”

“Right,” Martin says, the word small and hollow. He’s not quite sure what to _say_ —what do you say to a god? Eventually, he settles on, “So, uh. What can… what can I call you? Honestly, it- it feels a bit weird to just call you _my god_ or whatever.”

Their face twists into something uncomfortable, almost repulsed. “Yes, I- I would feel rather uncomfortable with that.” They hesitate a moment before continuing, “I am… _technically_ a god of knowledge, of- of seeing and observing and perceiving. I’ve been called the Beholder in the past, or- or the Watcher, and on occasion, the Archivist.”

Softly, Martin says, “But what would _you_ like me to call you?”

They look a bit startled, and Martin thinks with an ache in his chest that they’ve probably never been asked for their opinion on the matter before. They consider it for a moment before saying, “Jon. I’d- I’d like to be called Jon.”

It’s a deeply human name. When Martin meets Jon’s eyes again, he sees within them vulnerability and certainty in equal measure, and Martin thinks that the name rather suits them.

_Jon._

“Would you like to stay?” Martin says, feeling a bit nervous asking even with the words _rather nice to have some company_ lingering in his mind. “I- I usually read alone, but I… I wouldn’t mind company.” He lets out a small laugh. “Unless you have, er. _Godly_ things to attend to.”

“Honestly,” Jon says with a wry smile, “it gets rather boring doing _godly things._ ” Their smile turns warm, and they say, “I’d much rather be here with you.”

Martin’s stomach does something a little funny at that that he resolutely decides _not_ to think about. “Right. Well, er. I- I was planning on finishing up a book about the- the stars and the cosmos, if you’d like to… discuss it together?”

“That sounds lovely,” Jon says. The word _lovely_ nestles within Martin’s chest, thrumming in time with his heartbeat.

Martin doesn’t end up finishing the book in the end, instead getting lost in the stories Jon tells, of faraway lands and people Martin’s never met and a history that doesn’t get told in books and scrolls. But he finds he really doesn’t mind at all.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos make my day! if you liked what you read, let me know 💛
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


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